


A Study in Orange

by Aloof_Introvert



Series: Managing the Life of Tarrant Hightopp, and Five Other Impossible Things [7]
Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Cooking, Fire, Gen, Language Headcanons, Symbolism, Tailoring, Tarrant is very Scottish, Time - Freeform, You can't fight the weird Underland headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6233983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloof_Introvert/pseuds/Aloof_Introvert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarrant thinks the color orange is a little unsettling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Orange

**Author's Note:**

> I know that the Sherlock Holmes novels weren't even around in time to inspire this title, but I couldn't resist.

  
     The market boiled with energy, flamesome light burning forth from the setting sun. Children ran caucus races in the street, and Time obliged, twisting his namesake to match the spontaneity of the sport; the sun set and rose, set and rose, setting the angular buildings gleaming with a golden and amber glow. I knew full well that it wouldn't be long before Time tired of entertaining the children, but for the time being I savoured the novelty of sun-rise-sets. Sun-seconds, I mused, would be a fitting name for them. How ever, Time's rare playful mood put not a dent in my apprehenselike attitude as I stared down upon the fiery orange marketplace, eyes scorched fiercely by the light.

\----

     "Oh, dear," cried Thackery during breakfast at the end of my second week in the windmill. His ears drooped in unbridled despair. "I don't believe I've got enough money to host all of these parties!" I assumed that he meant his generous housing of Mally and I. For the past week, we had made it our stealthsome campaign to convince Thackery that we were, in fact, his guests, rather than the other way round. How ever, he had decided that we WERE his guests but that he was merely hosting several very long dinner parties.

     "Perhaps we could find other lodgings," I suggested.

     "Leave off, lad, leave off," Thackery grumbled with a shake of his twitchsome head, abruptly cross. "It's bad enough as it is, with the conversation of the both of you-- I can never comment on some thing without you commenting back." I wondered should I inform him that that is what conversations ARE, but decided against it.

     "May be we could sell some thing," Mally piped up. "I could teach swordplay lessons, like." Thackery merely laughed.

     "Nonsense! It won't do," he snapped, then turned conciliatory. "I've always liked... macramé. For the little things on the kettle, with yarn and all that," he rambled. "And may be a bit of paint and feathers." He seemed to shake himself, recalling his original purpose. "Do either of you know a trade?" Mally said nothing, but her head turned squarely to me.

     So we walked to the market in Snud, which was boiling with energy. The bustling crowds and ever-present chatter quite seared me. Mally rode on my hat, but every time she hung playfully from the rim my peripheral vision thought she was some thing else. Every one, from rabbits to horses to the occasional human, appeared to move together, mingling like smoke. Their forms smouldered in the orange light, charring stalls and quaint buildings with their long amber shadows. Despite my curiously apprehenselike attitude, I somehow managed to walk away from the marketplace with several rolls of fabric, spools of various colours, sewing needles, scissors and tailor's chalk, having traded the last few coins from Thackery's strongbox. Upon leaving the marketplace and returning to the open, wide path-- listening to the wind coax songs out of the trees-- I was much relieved, but did not know why. Perhaps it was because there were no eyes upon me, with their singularly saddened looks.

As I stepped into the leaf-shorn shade, I breathed again.

\----

     "Hatter!" Mally called as she scampered into my room, annoyance edging her voice. "I handed this to the shopkeeper-- you know, that nice old sheep-- an' what a fool I looked like!" She gave me the paper that she held, but I could tell by her expression that she would rather have thrown it at me. "Phiv mìtuis ef suiùlìain phabraic," read the note.

     "This is fine, Mally," I said.

     "No, it isn't, because I can't even figure what language you're tryin' to write in."

     "Englandish," I replied with a sigh. "Is it really so bad? I thought I'd gotten a tad better than I used to be."

     "It's half Outlandish, looks like. D'you need lessons or some thing?" She placed one paw on her hip, losing her severity.

     "Not if you can take orders for me," I ventured. Mally rolled her eyes exaggerateish, huffing.

     "Fine, what does it say?" I grinned triumphant.

     "'Five metres of cerulean fabric.'"

     "THANK you," Mally seethed with no venom behind it, and as she left I turned back to my work.

     It was a pleasant night. Mally and Thackery were both going to the market, so I stayed in the windmill alone. If by chance the windmill was besieged by a band of marauders, I was advised to surrender immediately because "you get all exhausted only fetchin' a few platters, lookit your noodle-arms, how would you fare in a fight?" I agreed with it, as I was never fond of fighting anyway. I passed the evening with work. And what lovely work indeed; my bedroom now more closely resembled a workshop that happened to have a bed in it, I was often chastised for forgetting to remove my thimbles before dinner and one could not walk into my room without treading on a button or three. The overall mission was to make and sell enough garments-- waistcoats, greatcoats, trousers, dresses, etcetera-- to gain back what we had spent and then some. Mallymkun was our financial advisor, since she was quite the frugal little thing.

     In my workshop-room, I chose a design from the unkempt pile of papers strewn across my bed. It was a fairly competentish sketch, a swallowtail coat which I envisioned in rich shades of blue. How ever, when I lowered the paper to peruse the rolls of fabric, I noticed that they were only in warm shades. Glowing yellow felt, blazing orange cotton and gleaming red silk laid on my desk. A ribbon of scarlet shimmered and spilled over the edge, lamp-light glinting off; the cotton cloth bunched up in waves of fraying flame-lily orange. It unsettled me. Without thought, I grabbed the scissors, seized my hair in my fist, and cut it all off with one motion.

\----

     "Pass the battenburg, lad," said Thackery. I reached for the plate of checkered cake.

     Reception of my short shock of a hairstyle had been well-received. Thackery had said that it was about time, and Mally did not care either way. The battenburg was good; Thackery was as agreeable of a baker as he was a cook (as soon as Mally allowed him to waste money on sugar and chocolate and things, figuring that she owed him a debt). The cerulean fabric made some splendid bows and cravats.

     I passed the dish of cake to Thackery, and as I did, my hand passed over the candle-flame that no longer mocked me.

\----


End file.
